Pushback
by defenestratedmango
Summary: A month after Mikasa Ackerman moves to Manhattan to consult for a very high stakes venture capital firm, she finds the job unexpectedly draining, her social life limited, and the city contentious. But between small victories and a masochistic tango with the company's Vice President/least risk-averse senior consultant, she learns that a little pushback goes a long way.


**Thanks to my lovely beta, animeroxursox!**

**Disclaimer: I just play with Isayama's toys.**

"Promise me you'll write back often, okay?" Mikasa returned Carla's embrace with gusto. Over her shoulder was her home of sixteen years, a simple single-level house in the suburbs of Ann Arbor where she learned how to ride a bike through three feet of snow, how to make boys cry with a carefully aimed ball of socks, and how to properly enjoy a hockey game. When she received the job offer immediately after the interview, she knew she might have to give these things up in her new life in the city, but made a note to buy a pack of thick woolen socks to keep next to the door in her new apartment. Carla tossed a tail of a red scarf over Mikasa's shoulder and stood on tip-toe to kiss her hairline. "Your letters will never come soon enough. I'm going to miss you so much, my dear girl."

"Then your dear girl will call you over and over and you will never hit the block contact button fast enough." Carla laughed lightly and patted Mikasa's shoulders affectionately.

"Mom! Mikasa should have left twenty minutes ago!"

Mikasa drew up her suitcases and hastily hobbled down the porch stairs toward the taxi, coughing the entire way. "I guess I have to go now, huh? Eren might body-check the TSA officers in security if we don't make it on time."

Carla nodded with some amusement and waved from the doorway. "Sleep as soon as you can and take it easy, Mikasa. Preparing for and finalizing this move has taken a lot out of you and you start work the day after you arrive. Take some cold medicine and drink lots of water. It sounds like you're coming down with a cold."

As Mikasa slammed the taxi door shut, Eren rolled down the window. "Oi mom! Take care of yourself! I'm not coming home to some bedridden old woman!"

"You worry about yourself, Eren!" Carla ran out of the house cocooned in a thick blanket, yelling as the taxi drove away. "Take care of each other, okay? And when you pick Armin up, tell him good luck from me!"

Eren stuck his head out the window as the taxi careened into the main road, waving to acknowledge her request. As he began talking to the taxi driver, Mikasa pulled the scarf over her nose and looked through the other window and let her thoughts drift through her pounding head.

* * *

The three twenty-somethings stood amidst the milling crowds of travelers before the gargantuan divide between the gates in Concourse A. The structure carried the sounds of goodbyes and arrivals with the announcements drifting overhead. The horizon cast a purple tint through the windows as planes rolled past each other outside. They enveloped each other fiercely with the expanse of their huddled arms, clutching wrinkled boarding passes.

"We'll never drift out of touch, got it?" Mikasa could hear the pounding of Armin's heart in his voice.

"We're going to video chat every Sunday right before bed. No one is allowed to do work during those chats."

"We're going to get together in person every month for a weekend, no matter what."

"But above all," murmured Mikasa, "We must take care of each other the best we can from where we are. From now on, we're on our own, but won't be alone."

The atmosphere changed when they broke apart. It was a strange grab bag to have between friends, consisting of pensive staring, uneasy heartfelt smiles, and tapping feet. Mikasa saw something strange in the eyes of her best friends, not determination, nor the grimness of duty, nor the sadness of parting, nor the glassy look of nostalgia. She recognized it in the reflections of her own eyes as implicit understanding. They arrived at Mikasa's gate first, hand in hand and took turns seeing her off with gifts. Armin had given her a leather-bound photo album with photos and a notepad on the back cover ("You can yell as loudly as you want on paper, so I'm sure your neighbors will appreciate this too.").

Eren wrapped his arms tightly around her, bringing her in with a surge of his earthy smell. "Armin and I got you something together and the gift is already at your apartment, so this is my personal gift for you." He pulled out a necklace with a little silver key on it and pressed it warmly into her upturned palm. Seeing the look on her face, he grinned and ruffled her hair. "Don't worry so much about me, okay? I'll tear Boston crime a new one for you, I promise."

"Thank you so much, Armin, Eren." She gave their hands one last cherished squeeze.

Mikasa put the key necklace into her pocket and nodded at their diminished forms before she strode into the bridge.

* * *

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We've arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The local time is 12:22 AM and it's quite chilly out tonight and there's piles of snow packed onto ice, so do be careful when going about your business in the city. Please wait until the fasten seatbelt sign…"

Mikasa closed her eyes against the chirping PA, hoping that she could at least sleep through the ride to Manhattan proper when the chauffeur arrived. The coughing had turned into a nastily raw sore throat and a persistently expanding trash bag of used tissues.

"Oh my god, you are going to love New York, honey. Don't go out of your way to do any of that touristy stuff, honestly it's just so overrated! Letitia says you have to live like a local to get what New York is really like and _goodness_ does she know what she's talking about. You remember my niece, Letitia? She's such a sweet thing, honestly and she's so cute when you get her talking about how much she loves this city and her new boyfriend and the little cupcake shop she found across the street from her apartment, which _by the way_ was a steal! Oh, speaking of steals, wait 'til you taste the food trucks, it's almost as amazing as Philly, you know, where I grew up. You said your apartment was in the Lower East Side, right? Poor dear, you have to live close to those filthy hipsters and aren't there violent protests there? Are you safe? Well, if you can't get a better place because of your company, at least bolt the door. Oh and do remember pepper spray dear. Pepper! That reminds me of that amazing tapas place in Hell's Kitchen! Let me write that address down for you…"

She was also hoping this woman's throat was going to fall asleep after the unholy amount of conversation she carried from the beginning of the flight. Mikasa had to remind herself that it was rude to punch someone's throat even if she did feel terribly sick. She managed to tune her out for a moment and turned her attention to the quiet space around her, walkways humming evenly without the weight of shuffling feet and baggage.

"Are you Miss Ackerman?"

"Yes! Yes, yes!" Mikasa's voice cut through the rambling of the middle-aged woman beside her. ("You can't hate them too much for the late night flight, they gave you a chauffeur! Remember – best tapas in New York!" as she got into a cab.)

The chauffeur looked a bit intimidated by her animated outburst, but smiled nonetheless as he loaded her bags into the large black SUV. Mikasa's eyes could no longer resist the changing pressure in her head and she slumped against the frosty window in the front seat.

Through the darkness enclosed by her lids, she heard car doors opening and closing. "Miss Ackerman, we're here. Miss Ackerman? Miss Ack- ahh!"

Mikasa jolted awake as her eyes adjusted and refocused to the jaundiced stream of light from street lamp. Her eyes shifted from her balled fist to the chauffeur, who was clutching his nose with both hands. The realization that she punched him had dawned on her but try as she might, she couldn't make herself emote. The sleep deprivation settled down nicely with the effects of her newfound cold. Without being aware of what she was doing, she reached out to his hands and patted them in a daze of fatigue and sickness, mumbling dismissive apologies with inappropriate terms of endearment. The chauffeur took it all in stride with a blush on his cheeks and handed her a folder along with the key he had retrieved from the landlady. He helped her up the stairs slowly with her bags in tow while she sloppily wiped her nose with a handkerchief in her coat pocket. Just as he reached the bottom step, he suddenly called out to her.

"Miss Ackerman!"

Mikasa stopped on the top of the steps, hands resting calmly on the cast-iron railings.

"You dropped your hat." He placed it on top of her luggage handle. She didn't seem to be in particularly good health and the last thing she needed was working through her first day with walking pneumonia. "Would you like my help carrying your things up? You look like you're going to pass out on these steps."

Mikasa shook her head and felt a wave of vertigo as she steadied herself with the doorknob. Even though she had dressed properly for the biting chill of the night, she felt chills run through her limbs. She couldn't stay out for much longer if she still wanted to be able to move tomorrow, so she entered the foyer and waved weakly at the chauffeur.

Before she closed the door, he mumbled something about her welcome to New York and knowing how this wasn't professional but, "Y-your hair is very pretty," he finished awkwardly.

She turned her head toward the direction of his voice with sleep-heavy eyes. "Thanks."

When she reached her apartment with the help of an elderly neighbor the chauffeur had managed to flag down, she looked at the bare white walls of her studio. She dragged her boots through the small hall, tracking dirty snow she would probably clean furiously later. At last she dropped the folder unceremoniously and remembered that she bolted the door before she slid onto the floor of her vacuous bedroom. It was the first, but not the last time she would be glad to pass out on cold dusty laminate.

* * *

_56 Leonard Street #58, don't wake me after_ 2, _dispose when you get home_. Jean tapped his pen against the guest log as the receptionist went to call up to the penthouse on the 58th floor. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets as he rocked back and forth on the heels of his dress shoes. Sometimes he wondered how his boss would be willing to take such late visits, even if they were for business. He certainly could wait until the next morning before he came in at 8:00 or simply take an efficient and impersonal report through email or a voice message. All Jean knew was that he would sooner yell "Bomb!" in the middle of rush hour at Times Square than take business calls at 1:45.

"Levi will see you now, Mr. Kirschstein. He says to make it quick." The receptionist motioned toward the elevator.

Jean entered the elevator car and pressed the 58. He leaned back on the mirrored wall and the hand support beam and ran a hand through his hair as the doors closed. "Believe me when I say I wouldn't prolong these visits for the life of me."

Business. He rarely went to lower Manhattan for any other reason. Not that he would particularly want to, lest he be reminded of how far he had to go in order to live in a place like this, in a place like posh-ass Tribeca. Extremely high risk venture capital consulting was very kind to those who knew what tactics to leverage at the right time and the right eye to decide where the risks the client would be able to take and risks the client would be willing to take overlapped. Upward mobility was limited only to people who developed these skills quickly and well, Jean liked to think he had that potential, considering how well he had to have done to be given a new case for which he would be the lead consultant.

When he reached the top floor, he knocked on the only door in the hallway. On the occasion that he made these visits, motivation for promotion was flagrantly present. The floor was made of semi-opaque black tiles that were backlit. Geometric frameless mirrors and a couple of simple, almost floor-length windows completed the minimalist look of the hallway, a meager sample of the penthouse it preceded. His eye for art appraisal was that of a layman compared to his mother, but even he knew that modern style decor was deceptively expensive. He was brought back to the present when he heard the click of the locks.

Levi leaned against the door wrapped in his winter coat and a thick blanket, arms folded calmly. "Make it quick, Kirschstein."

Jean wrinkled his nose. "Gladly. I picked Miss Ackerman up from JFK around 12:30 and dropped her off at her apartment on 14th and 2nd Ave in East Village. She seemed quite out of it and on the verge of getting sick."

"Great," Levi was struggling to fight back a yawn. "Did you remember to prepare the - "

Jean handed the envelope to him. Levi's face took on a more pleasant quality as he flipped through its contents. "Excellent." He looked back up at Jean with something akin to renewed irritation. "See you tomorrow morning."

"Wait," Levi stopped at Jean's sudden outburst. "She really did look quite sick. Does she really need to start tomorrow? We're about to present the Shore oil case and...she doesn't know anything about it and..."

He trailed off at the look on Levi's face. "If she wants to keep her job, yes."

Jean nodded in resignation before heading back into the mirrored elevator car. As he wondered why Levi would make such a particular request for that specific envelope, he saw Levi's head buried in the contents of his delivery as the elevator and penthouse doors simultaneously slid shut.


End file.
